Sniffles
by Little Red Umbrella
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has caught the one thing he doesn't want, a cold! Well, Molly hears about it, and knows that the detective could use some company. So she pays the poor man a visit, and one thing goes to the next. Rate, comment below!


_Sniffles – A Sherlock/Molly Fanfiction_

John Watson casually strolled into the morgue early in the morning, taking off the thick wool coat that protected him from the winter snow outside. He gestured "Hellos" and "Good mornings" to familiar faces, but he hurried through the halls as quickly as he could to find Molly Hooper. His phone set off an alert, probably another text from Sherlock. He reached into his pocket and slid it open, reading the message.

_Did you get to Molly yet? – SH_

_ No, I didn't. I'll get there soon, be patient._

John set his phone to vibrate to prevent any more distractions and continued to walk through the bustling corridors, peeking into Molly's usual lab. She was there, as usual, staring through the microscope with one hand on the lens knob, the other gripping a pen and taking notes on the side. He slipped into the room quietly as to not make a distraction. She heard the sound of the door closing though, and looked up, expecting Sherlock to be with him. Molly never usually saw John alone.

"Hey there, John," she said, pulling away through the microscope and composing herself. "Where's Sherlock? I thought you two would be coming to look over the information."

"Actually, Molly," John began. "Mrs. Hudson and I wouldn't let Sherlock leave the flat, he's caught a bad cold and it's made him completely lethargic. He needed to take a break so I just came down to grab notes of whatever you've found if you don't mind."

"Of course you can take them, John," she replied, reaching over the other side of the desk and clutching a thick manila folder. Just as she was about to hand them to the doctor, he felt a long buzzing in his pocket. It had to be a call, not a text.

"Sorry Molly, let me get this," John said quickly, reaching for his phone and picking up the call. "Hello? Oh…that's right…of course I'll be there. No, I didn't forget…yeah…yeah, sure, I can make it earlier. It's just that…okay. Okay I'll see you then. Goodbye, darling." He turned back to Molly. "Sorry, I have a date; I'll just grab these and run before I'm late."

"Actually, John, why don't you just head off? Don't rush. I'll deliver these to Sherlock. He sounds like he needs a bit of company anyways. Go off an enjoy yourself."

"Thanks Molly, you're a lifesaver. And I think company will do Sherlock well."

John gave her a thankful nod and left the room, slipping his coat back on as he made the tedious walk back through the busy corridor. Molly quickly reached into her purse and took out her pocket mirror along with her new lipstick. She smoothly brushed it over her lips with light strokes and made sure it was evenly applied. She had become quite the expert on applying lipstick; even Sherlock didn't make any remarks on the lack of precision. But she was pleased with herself.

Molly slipped off her lab coat and clocked out of work. Standing at the corner, she hailed for a black cab and stepped into the one that pulled over for her.

The driver asked, "Where to, miss?"

"Baker Street," she said, clutching the files under her arm. "221B Baker Street."

"For crying out loud, Sherlock, get back into bed!" Mrs. Hudson cried. "You've been coughing and sneezing all over the flat!"

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied nasally, plopping down into his chair, sipping his tea. "I am perfectly fine. You and John both are blowing this completely out of proportion."

"You sound terrible, you do. Now you should march back into bed and through the duvet and sheets over yourself. Grab a book, sip some tea, or go to sleep, because you won't get better wandering around the flat with nothing but your flannels on!"

Sherlock sighed and took another sip of tea, turning his head away from her and into his elbow, letting out another terrible sneeze. He hadn't been sick since his teenage years. He attempted to discover where he could have contracted this from, but even his superior mind felt worn down and slow. He pulled himself up from the chair and shuffled into his bedroom sluggishly, not having the strength to argue with Mrs. Hudson. Without another word, he slipped back under the covers and rested his head on the worn out pillows, and let out a light groan. He was bored. And he hated it.

The doorbell downstairs rang, and Mrs. Hudson rushed to get it. Molly was standing by the threshold when she opened it, her purse under her one arm, and the files under the other.

"Oh Molly!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, clasping her hands together. "It's so good to see you!"

"It's good to see you too, Mrs. Hudson," Molly replied with a light smile. "I heard Sherlock isn't feeling well… I just thought I'd drop by. I have some files for him that I'm delivering for John, since he went off on his date."

"Oh come on in already, dearie, it's freezing out here," Mrs. Hudson scolding, stepping aside and waving Molly in. "And yes, Sherlock is upstairs. Hopefully you can cheer him up; he's been just a nasty mood."

Molly laughed slightly. "He's never in a nasty mood?"

"Oh dear, I admit he can be rude sometimes but no, never nasty. This has really gotten to him." She leaned over and whispered, "I think he feels a bit vulnerable."

"I'll see what I can do about it, Mrs. Hudson."

Molly walked up the stairs and entered Sherlock's flat quietly, hanging her jacket on one of the chair. Sherlock heard the door creaking from the other room. He studied the amount of pressure put on the hinges that made the sound, and the sound of the shoes that had hit the floor.

"Molly?" He asked out bluntly. "Is that you? What're you doing here."

Molly never heard him this congested; it made her heart sink slightly. "Yes Sherlock! It's me, I just came by to see how you were doing."

"Bad idea, Molly…"

Molly set the manila folder on top of his computer, and then stepped into his bedroom. She saw him curled up under his duvet and blanket, head turned to the side on his pillows. His tea was still letting off steam on his nightstand. Sherlock blinked up at her tiredly, his eyes sunken in. He sniffled a little, obviously trying to keep his composure. He didn't like it when people saw him as vulnerable as any other human. He was the world's best detective, yet he was also buried under a mountain of covers, blowing his nose into tissues every five minutes and obsessively sipping tea, as if it had some magical cure which medicines did not get discover.

"Oh look at you," Molly said quietly, coming over. She placed the back of her hand on his forehead. "You're not burning but you're a little warm. Did you eat anything all day?"

"I didn't want to."

"Good God Sherlock, you're such a child."

Molly hurried off to the kitchen, and Sherlock's eyes followed her. From the apex of the doors, he could make out her reaching for pots and such. He knew exactly what she was doing, but refused to question it for some reason. Without a doubt, she returned to his room soon after, a bowl of chicken soup resting on a tray. Sherlock sat up slightly and looked into it.

"Not only is eating necessary," Molly began. "But chicken soup is bound to make you feel better."

Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he had chicken soup, but he reached for the spoon and brought it up to his lips. He in-took it slowly, his shoulders shivered in delight as the warm formula ran down through his body, warming up every organ on the way down to his stomach. He closed his eyes, finding the taste delectable. He was happy that there was a whole bowl of it left.

"Wow…Molly…I…"

"Struggling to say something?"

"Thank you."

Molly knew the words were familiar, given that everyone used them. But coming from the mouth of Sherlock Holmes, they were different. They gave her a warm glow in her chest, as if an angel had sent something down upon her. Within five minutes, Sherlock had completely finished the soup, automatically regaining some liveliness. He brought himself to speak about the case they were working on, but when Molly offered to get the folder from the other room, he stopped her.

"Why not? I've got the blood sample results and everything."

"Molly, why don't you…" Sherlock bit his lip slightly. "Why don't you just…stay here for a while? I mean, John is off on his date, we can worry about the case some other time."

Molly blinked a little, looking up at him. "Well, would you tell me what you'd like to do? Honestly?"

"Do I have to be one hundred percent honest?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. You do."

"…If I wasn't sick, I think I'd…take you and kiss you."

Molly reached over and took his arms, "Are you…really saying this?"

"I think I was an idiot never to say it earlier, Molly Hooper."

"Then you better hope I don't get sick."

And just like that, Sherlock Holmes felt as Molly Hooper pressed her lips against his, his eyes closing. His heart raced against his chest, and he couldn't tell if that was a side effect of the cold, or a symptom of the embrace. Either way, he decided that he liked it. And Molly Hooper had decided the same.


End file.
